Last Chance
by kattomas
Summary: Her survival only means his death. But maybe that's preferable to the existence he turns to after the Games - he didn't realize how hard it would be to live while she didn't. The Second Quarter Quell and the years later, from Haymitch's POV.


**Last Chance**

* * *

**I. Reaping**

When Maysilee Donner gets reaped, Haymitch forgets to breathe.

No, not because he feels anything for her. She's from the center of town, for goodness sakes. Perfect and beautiful and _forbidden_. Forbidden to a boy from the depths of the Seam, with coal grey eyes and olive skin. He doesn't panic because of _her_, but because the chances of her slip being picked out of thousands doesn't bode well for his own chances. His thirty-seven slips, with the name _Haymitch Abernathy_ typed in fancy Capitol script.

And when his name is chosen, there's that little voice deep in the recesses of his brain that screams _this is your chance_. But he crushes that thought like he might a bug and steels himself in front of the politely clapping crowd, the joyful families pleased that they're spared for another year. His own family stands off to the side, silently crying, tears slipping down their cheeks.

He doesn't look at them once as he's led off the platform with the other three tributes. Hardens his face and stares at a point in the distance, his back straight and his arms logs at his sides. Because the Capitol _hates_ a simpering weakling.

He notices with some measure of satisfaction, that Maysilee's face is as stoic as his.

But he's not allowed to look at her like that. Not before, and _definitely _not now.

He lets the Peacekeepers lead him to the Justice Building, locking his feelings away. It's not the time to break down and surrender to the turmoil of emotions swirling inside of him. The bubbling _hatred_, the overwhelming _fear_. No, he must pull himself together.

By the time he reaches the velvet room, Haymitch is as cold as stone.

**II. Train Ride**

She's beaming at them as they sullenly shovel food in their mouths. That Capitol accent grates Haymitch's nerves, stretching his nerves to their _maximum. _And he absolutely _hates_ that stupid woman, hates her stupid, neon green wig, hates the Capitol fashions that prompt her to color her hair such a _ridiculous _shade. He's so busy hating everything that he doesn't realize that a whole day has passed, and he hasn't seen Maysilee anywhere.

He's torn between stalking off to his room like the hardened tribute he was supposed to be and creeping out to the other cars, to see if he can spy even a hair on that golden head. There's that voice again - _this is your last chance_ - and as soon as he can banish this thought from his mind he turns to go to his quarters.

He doesn't _care _about last chances. Emotions are for the _weak_, and the arena is no place for a weakling.

There are whispering voices in all of Haymitch's dreams that night. Whispering voices and silky blonde hair.

_this is your last chance.. last chance last chance last chance..._

**III. Opening Ceremony**

The costumes are absurd. Black, covered in black powder, complete with headlamps and a stuffed canary.

District Twelve will not be the highlight of the ceremony tonight.

With four tributes from each district, they barely fit in the chariot. Maysilee stands in front of him, that _damning_ blonde hair taunting him only inches from his face. He tries to think of anything else, anything at all, from lamb stew to neon green wigs to headlamps to _Maysilee_ - and soon he gives up and concentrates _only_ on that hair, each fine strand blowing in the light breeze as the chariot passes the president's balcony.

It's hopeless for him, he knows, if he can't get his mind off of the merchant girl. That girl will be the _death_ of him. And survival is _wired _into his brain, inherent from years of living in the poverty-stricken Seam. _He must survive. _And _she_ has no place in his plan for survival. There must be only one thing on his mind from here on out. _Survival. _

_Her_ survival only means _his _death.

And later he sits on his bed, staring into the mirror, deciding that no girl, not even _that_ girl, is worth the inevitable end.

Blue eyes and horrific wigs haunt his sleep that night.

**IV. Training**

Gleaming weapons. Silver bows and steel knives. Some of the weaker, smaller tributes might see death in this arsenal of instruments. Haymitch sees _life_. Specifically, the opportunity of it.

He throws himself into training with a vengeance. All his pain, his aching - he channels it into the one goal he's held onto since his name got drawn at the reaping. He has _wicked_ aim, for someone who's never touched a weapon in his life. He can shoot with reasonable accuracy. Edible plants? Too easy for someone whose mother spent her dawns in the woods gathering greens.

Through all of it he keeps on his Games face, the icy mask that defines his exterior. _Breakfast, training, lunch, training, dinner, sleep - _and over again. The three days before the interviews and the dreaded _Games_ are brutal for him, physically and mentally. _Focus._ All that stands between him and almost certain death is _focus_.

His knives slip into the throats of dummies, between hard plastic ribs. He learns how to start fires and make nooses. The instructor at the knots station is thrilled at his progress.

And during all of this, he can't help but take notice of a certain blonde-haired girl, quietly moving past him from one station to the next. She's excellent at shooting and climbing. She's lousy at knife throwing, although she aces the edible plants test, just like him.

He's so scared of meeting her in the Games. But like all of his other emotions, he lets it show in the _satisfying_ sound of his knife hitting the target, every time.

Weapons. Blood. Sometimes he can't see himself in the mirror anymore, no matter how clean it is.

**V. Interviews**

The shoes the stylist forces onto Haymitch's feet pinch his toes. He can see his reflection in the polished surface, but he prefers the dusty coal that covers every surface of the Seam. He leans down to adjust the cuff of his black silk pants _again_ before looking up and -

He loses his breath again. _Again_, in barely two weeks. He can't breathe, how can he not breathe?

Maysilee takes her seat delicately next to him, not noticing his expression. The cracks in his carefully constructed mask. Why does he put himself into these situations? She dons a full length silver dress that _shimmers_ with every movement she makes. White slippers peek out beneath the skirt. And her _hair_ - that hair... blonde strands perfectly arranged around her face. The same hair that _embodies_ his death.

At that _very_ moment, Haymitch resolves to _never _die by drowning. Or suffocation. Because this _feeling_, like every breath of air has been knocked out of his chest, makes him feel helpless. And he hates feeling helpless.

She floats through her interview. Beautiful and _herself_, something he could never say about his own self. He's _gone,_ left behind at the train station in Twelve, waiting - waiting with decreasing hope - that Haymitch will return to take him back. But for now, Haymitch is just a bloodthirsty, desperate _shell_ of the boy that walked into the Justice Building.

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

"I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

Oh, they would be so much _better _if a certain town girl were safe at home.

But Caesar doesn't need to know that.

**VI. The Arena**

It's beautiful. It smells like her - _damnit _these are exactly the thoughts he's supposed to avoid. The timer ticks down, and in a flash he's sprinted to the Cornucopia and snatched a promising bag of supplies and a couple of knives. The _idiots_ he's surrounded by are still sniffing the air, taking in the slightly floral scent. He makes for the woods, escaping the carnage finally erupting in the field of buttercups.

He can't help it. Everyone's occupied with fleeing or fighting. He snatches a _single_ glance at her, one the cameras don't catch, because the Capitol is gleefully lapping up the blood being spilled. _There_! She's running, a small pack on her back. _Running_ - she's safe for now.

The relief he feels is so sudden and so _overwhelming_ that he immediately starts running again, pushing her out of his mind.

But she's _safe_.

The thought sustains him through the next nights, when he's settled in a thin sleeping bag in a sturdy tree. Her image is not broadcast into the sky - so she's _alive_. But there's that other thought nagging him. _While she lives, your chances of living drop._ And the whispering voice he thought he had gotten rid of, back to coax his subconscious - _this is your last chance_.

For the time being, he runs. Away from the Cornucopia, towards what he feels must be the edge of the arena. The cameras must think he has some _convoluted _plan up his sleeve, but in reality, he just wants to _escape._ The part of him that trained relentlessly the days before is dormant now, persuaded to sleep by his ever-growing fear of _his_ death and _her_ death.

And so he runs.

There's an awful moment when he thinks he's done for. Three Careers, armed to the teeth and _deadly_. Which pretty much spells out his demise. He pulls his knife, channeling the blood-loving bit in him, fighting like his life depends on it.

Because it _does._

He tries. He really does. But he's still just a _tribute_, a scrawny tribute from the _poorest_ district, against three of the fittest tributes in his Games. He's ready to go, having taken two of them, smiling grimly at the sight of their limp bodies in the grass besides him.

So when she steps out of the trees and the Career about to slit his throat drops dead, he can't help but think that she's his _angel_, unknowingly stealing his breath away.

"We'd live longer with the two of us."

"Guess you just proved that." He rubs the back of his neck, ignoring the survival instinct in him that says _no no no nonono you can't _and offering anyway. "Allies?"

She nods, and that's that - she's _his_. As much as she could be in the arena.

They continue towards the edge of the arena, at Haymitch's insistence. But the reason is different this time, which makes _all _the difference. He wants to spend _every_ moment of his life with her, his angel, but he makes sure the cameras see the Haymitch he wants to portray. Stoic. Determined. A _victor._

Just when he thinks he's the happiest he could be in the arena, she leaves. _I don't it to come down to you and me_. Truer words have never been spoken. He _dreads_ having to face her, if it ever comes to that. Having to slit her throat so he can go home. _This is your last chance - _

He ignores that, and the urge to grip her arm and say _stay with me, always_, and they separate. He laughs when he discovers the force field. The Gamemakers have failed. The short-lived giddiness he feels is put to an abrupt end when he hears it. _Her_.

_Screaming. _So much _screaming_. _Her_ screaming. He runs, his heart in his throat, not caring who's watching, and sees his nightmares materialize _in front of him_.

He holds her hand while she dies, and when her skin feels cold to the touch he leaves.

_Broken_.

But he forces himself to remember something - _he can win_. He knows he can. And because _she's_ gone, the path to victory is clear.

Her screams dominate his every waking moment, blood-curdling shrieks and bright pink birds slowly kill him in his dreams.

He barely sleeps a wink.

**VII. Victory**

When the hovercraft comes to pick him up from the arena, he's so exhausted he doesn't notice the doctors working feverishly to put him back together.

_Maysilee Maysilee Maysilee..._

People congratulate him. _You won,_ they say. _The first tribute from Twelve in forty years_. But he doesn't care.

_Maysilee_ -

Why does victory feel so empty?

**VIII. Homecoming**

The banners are for him.

The screaming girls, town _and _Seam.

Where is his family?

And _Maysilee_ - he can't remember why he wanted to win. Why did he want to win again? Because winning feels worse than spilling his guts when the girl from One stabbed him.

His family died in a fire. No survivors. Nothing but an empty house in an equally empty Victor's Village.

He pushes the crowds away, the cameras and the camera crews. He doesn't want any of them today.

**IX. After**

He promised himself he wouldn't kill himself by drowning.

He takes a swig of alcohol, one for every time Maysilee took his breath away. The moments add up. A flame of hatred still burns within him. But it's dulled, numbed, by the drink.

Drowning isn't so bad after all.

He spends the next twenty-three years drowning himself in alcohol.

**X. Mentoring**

Every year is the same. Every year, two tributes he can't help. He watches them die through sightless eyes and tips the bottle back. Again. And _again_. Why hasn't District Twelve had a victor since? Because he'd rather them die _themselves_, the same people that stepped onto that stage during the reaping, than win _ruined_ and a _shadow_ of themselves.

This year, he expects it to be the same. He stocks up on alcohol and drinks himself into oblivion. But something's _different_.

His name is Peeta Mellark. And he loves the girl reaped in his district.

"Save her, Haymitch. I couldn't live without her. _She can win_. Please help her."

Peeta and Haymitch are as close to opposites as it gets. Blonde locks to dark brown hair. Town to Seam. Virtuous with a heart of gold to a cold stone in his chest. But in that moment, Haymitch sees himself in the boy. _In love_. The only difference is that Peeta knows that he must do.

"It'll be your death, boy."

"_Save her_."

Haymitch looks at the boy sitting in front of him. He nods.

Because he know what it's like to live a loveless life.

* * *

**A/N: I've always wanted to fill in the blanks _Catching Fire_ left when Haymitch's games were mentioned. I hope I did it justice. **

**Review?**


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